


I Will Always Find You

by hwriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:53:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1273951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwriter/pseuds/hwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reichenbach fall/reunion but only at the beginning. Then it goes into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago, before Season Three came out but I liked it a lot so im putting it on anyway. Also, the beginning is mostly the original Reichenbach scene, I just made a few itsy bitsy tiny changes.

“Goodbye John.” Sherlock threw the phone onto the roof behind him without taking his eyes off of John, the tears streaming down his face. “ Sherlock!” John yelled, the panic evident in his voice, no longer able to contact his friend through the cell phone he had just thrown behind him. His heart was pounding so fast in his chest it felt like he could have just run a mile. “Sher-!” He was about to call out Sherlock's name again, but at that moment Sherlock pirouetted slowly, and as he was turning, he fell backwards from St. Barts rooftop. his arms spread open as if welcoming the fall. John's eyes widened in shock and he staggered backward, the breath knocked out of him. He watched as Sherlock fell, down until he hit the ground, hidden by a small building and a truck. John felt sick. He had to get to Sherlock. He started towards the place where Sherlock had landed, not focusing on anything around him, just expecting, hoping, praying that Sherlock would round the corner , a cheeky grin on his face and say some witty remark like “Well, that’s one way to get down,” and adjust his scarf. But as John got closer and closer and no Sherlock rounded the corner, he got more and more nervous. He picked up his pace and started jogging, already out of breath from the pounding of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears. He saw a group of people crowded around a long dark figure lying on the ground, a pool of something red at one end. He tried to push through the people surrounding Sherlock's body, but for some reason they were holding him back. “Please, let me through, he’s my friend, please.” They were still holding him back, but he got close enough to grab onto Sherlock’s wrist and feel for a pulse. A non-existent pulse. John felt as if his heart had stopped with Sherlocks and his legs could no longer support him. He fell to his knees, dazed and in shock. “No. Please God, no” The words were long and drawn out. “Please Sherlock, no.” John watched from the ground as, in slow motion it seemed, two paramedics from the hospital lifted Sherlock's body onto a stretcher and carried him into the hospital. 

 

John and Mrs. Hudson were standing in front of the brand new black marble gravestone inscribed simply with the name Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson turned to John with a look of sympathy and sadness. “I’ll go so you can . . . you know.” She touched John on the shoulder and walked away. John watched her go and then turned back to stare blankly at Sherlock's grave for awhile. Then he took a deep breath. “Thank you Sherlock. I was so alone and I owe you so much.” John took a step forward. “But I also did a few, well more than a few, things for you and you owe me a favor.” Johns voice had gotten fierce and for a moment there was fire in his eyes, but it died away as quickly as it had come. “Please Sherlock, don’t be dead. Please please do that for me.” John started crying more and more as he said these words, finally falling to his knees, his hands gripping the gravestone on either side of his head, which was lying against the cool dark marble as the sobs shook his body. Finally, after an undeterminable amount of time, John stopped crying. He straightened himself and stood with a certain firmness as if steeling his nerves and steadying himself. “I will come back to this grave every single day. I will not let you be forgotten and alone.” And with a final nod of his head, John turned sharply on his heel and walked to join Mrs. Hudson. 

Behind a tree some 6 feet away from the black marble grave, leaning against a tree, his hands grasping it behind him, his eyes closed, but with tears falling swiftly and silently, was Sherlock Holmes. “Im sorry John. So so sorry.”

The days were long, drawn out, boring, monotonous, and at first filled with grief, pain, sadness, but later only numbness remained . . .


	2. Chapter 2

John sat down in his chair, facing Sherlocks empty one. He just sat. To an observer, it would have looked like he was just sitting there, staring into space, but he wasn’t. He was remembering Sherlock. Remembering his face. His voice. His experiments. Remembering his soft side for Mrs. Hudson and his hard side for anyone who laid a finger on her. Remembering there long conversations while he sat in his chair, the very chair in front of John, Sherlock had sat, talking to him, breathing, moving, being alive. And that window where Sherlock had stood so many times, playing the violin, composing beautiful pieces of music. And as John remembered, tears, the memories, tears filled with memories rolled down his cheeks. He remembered and remembered and he gasped because he remembered so much it was painful and he could almost hear Sherlock's voice. But as he was remembering, something happened. John got angry. He got angry at Sherlock for leaving him all alone. Then he stood up and started talking. “Now you listen to me, Sherlock.” You don’t care what people think of you. You don’t care if they think you’re a freak or that you research all of your deductions before you get there. or that you’re a sociopath. You don’t CARE!” With the last word, John had ripped a newspaper headline saying “Super Sleuth Sherlock” from the wall. Then he walked into the kitchen. “And even though you don’t care Sherlock, you left me! You left me all alone!” At this point John was shouting and sobbing simultaneously. You were always so bloody arrogant and I always had to apologize for you!” With the words “always” and “apologize” , John, with two long swipes of his arm, pushed everything, all of Sherlock’s microscopes, petri dishes and data tables, off of the kitchen table and onto the floor. Then he went into Sherlock's room still shouting. “I always tagged along with you, helped you solve millions of cases but every single time you got all of the credit and i wasn’t even mentioned!” He had gone into Sherlock’s closet and was ripping shorts from hangers and was throwing them on the ground. “You ridiculed me and repeatedly insulted me! I hate you! I hate you! I HATE YOU!” He picked up a picture that was framed of him and Sherlock and hurled it against the wall. The glass broke, but the picture remained intact. John walked over to it and picked the picture up. He leaned against the wall looking at the picture and then slowly slid down it until he was sitting on the ground, all the energy gone out of his body, the tears still streaming down his face. “I hate you Sherlock,” he whispered, teeth grited. Then- “I love you.” After that little episode, John still remembered Sherlock, but he kept himself in check, never let his emotions get out of hand. For three years he went on with his life as if he was a robot, just going through the motions, not sure exactly where he was going. John was in a fog that he could not see through.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been three years today since the day that Sherlock had jumped. An anniversary. but not the happy or good kind. John was already finding it hard to get on with things that day, and what happened next made it worse.

 

He was sitting at his desk, filling out some papers. Or trying to fill out papers. He kept thinking about Sherlock, his phone call (his note), his fall. This year had been harder so far then the last two. They had just been kind of hazy, numb and cold. This time he had woken up with a black cloud over his head and a hole in his heart. He had gone through that morning with tears in his eyes, none of them spilling over, but always on the brink. Now. in the afternoon, he was just tired. He wanted the day to be over. It was horrible. When he wasn’t occupied his mind would go to playing over in detail what had happened that day. Sit down and close his eyes once, getting the call that Mrs. Hudson had been shot, sit down again, leaving Sherlock, telling him that he was a machi - no, he couldn’t think about that, wouldn’t think about what he had said to Sherlock the last time that they were close to each other. Johns eyes filled with tears again at the thought. He sighed loudly into his hands as his secretary walked in. “Dr. Watson, there’s someone hear to see you and they say it’s urgent.”

“Alright, send then in.” sighed John, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. Greg Lestrade walked in and shut the door behind him. 

“Greg” John said with a nod. “What can I do for you?”  
“Hey, John, uh, I don’t know exactly how to say this but um,” Lestrade was talking in slowly halting words, looking nervous and unsure. Then, the door to John’s office slowly opened . There, standing framed in the doorway, was Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing his customary blue scarf and his black coat. His eyes were open wide and his lips were slightly parted with a look of uncertainty, happiness and sadness all at once. Johns mouth fell open and he rose halfway from his chair. “Sher . .” He glanced wildly from Sherlock to Lestrade and back again. Then he stood up completely. “No.” he said, tears glimmering in his eyes. Looking to Lestrade then back to Sherlock again he finally rested on Lestrade and he slowly walked around his desk. Lestrade, who had obtained a small smile, felt it slowly slipping off his face. “No.” John said again. “That isn’t Sherlock.” He pointed a finger at Sherlock standing by the door.   
“Sherlock Holmes is dead! He jumped off a building. I saw it!” John’s voice cracked, the tears now falling down his cheeks as his voice rose. “I felt for a pulse, I saw his body! He jumped, he’s gone!” Johns voice went to a whisper. “He left me” He then turned to Sherlock, who had not moved, his expression one of shock. “I don’t know who you are, or why you are doing this,” John was slowly walking toward Sherlock and his silent tears had turned to sobs, “But it is a horrible, cruel joke. I don’t understand,” John continued, turning again to Lestrade. “I don’t understand why you would do this to me” And breaking down into more violent sobs, he picked up his jacket and briefcase and walked out of the office, one hand holding his jacket and briefcase, the other hand wiping the tears that were still flowing, from his cheeks, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade in the room with identical expressions of shock.


End file.
